This morning came early. Really, *REALLY* early. Yesterday was one of those days when damn near everything that could go wrong did go wrong. It was so hyperbolic that if it were a movie, nobody would have believed it. So by 5:38 o’clock this morning I’d been awake for a couple of hours. And I was rewarded with this disturbing (because of the Canadian wildfires) but spectacular smoky sunrise over Lake Champlain.
Smoky Sunrise Over Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
That photograph above captures most of the drama, but the burning orb ascending from Vermont’s Green Mountains was actually an even crazier color of fluorescent orangey pink. Surreal. And big. And super bright. The entire Champlain Valley was thick with mustard grey-brown haze. Yes, these smoky skies are courtesy of the hundreds of Canadian wildfires burning out of control. And, no, the uncanny twist of fate — we fled Santa Fe a year ago to escape the sooty pollution of out-of-control wildfires only yo be inunda with the same now in Essex, New York — isn’t lost on us. Crazy times.
And yet, the upside of our Adirondack Coast choking on alarming high particulate counts for our typically pristine air is the sunrises and sunsets. They’ve been otherworldly.
Smoky Sunrise Over Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
As this morning’s smoky sunrise yielded to the smoke, our environs looked as if a huge storm were overtaking us. But no, in the second photo above, you can see no storm. Just the long lingering aftermath of burning forests.
Today quickly shifted into unseasonably humid and scorching conditions which was challenging for everyone working on the icehouse rehab, but the smoke lifted, and this afternoon’s air quality is considerably improved.
This post began as “Maiden Voyages in Vermont Dory”, but the title struck me as somewhat tone deaf at a time when we endeavor to sidestep gender sloppiness. Especially since I’m not a maiden. Nor a bachelor. Nor, frankly, does gender matter at all. And so, “First Forays in Vermont Dory” was born. Better. But now I’m realizing that “foray” borrows unnecessarily from the bellicose verbiage of our day… Busy brain!
And this — busyness of the brain — is actually the pithy point of this post.
First Forays in Vermont Dory (Photo: Geo Davis)
Yesterday morning and this morning mark my much anticipated transition into rowing. First forays in my newly acquired Vermont dory, a still half baked but enthusiastic embrace of early morning (and early evening) rowing as a counterpoint to my bike rides. More on this rowing and riding balance in a moment, but first a little context.
I’ve been lusting after an Adirondack Guideboat, well, probably since the late 1970’s when I enjoyed my first rowed ride in this quintessentially ADK conveyance at the Ausable Club. During the early days of the pandemic my mind returned this timeless watercraft, as elegant today as it was in the 1800s, and somehow inviting wistfuldaydreams of calmer, simpler times. I connected with the good folks at Adirondack Guideboat, and began to educate myself. They tried to convince me that a 14′ Vermont Dory, their most popular boat, was better suited to my location. Three summers later, after a 2022 return visit to revisit consideration with brother owners, Justin and Ian Martin, I decided it was time to commit.
That green beauty above is my new skiff, a cherry trimmed Kevlar Vermont dory perfectly suited to ply the early morning and early evening waters of Lake Champlain.
Yes, rowing is core and upper body exercise, both having been too long neglected by me. Biking in warmer months and skiing in colder months keep the bottom half of my body in decent shape. But it turns out that plunking keys on a keyboard do little good and plenty of bad for the body. I’m hoping that mixing it up between the dory and the bike might begin to get my upper and lower del es back in sync. Rowing my way towards a healthier body.
But that’s only part of the package. Remember, mens sana in corpore sano. A healthy mind and a healthy body. So resyncing the bod via two oars and a green dory would be good. Resyncing the mind *AND* bod? Genius!
And this brings me back to busy brain. I’ve long understood that an angsty mind — ants in my gray matter?! — is a deficit worth addressing. But understanding it and resolving it are two different things.
To be sure, exercise in general is helpful for me. Direct the excess energy into motion, and the body feels better. I think better. I sleep better. I husband better.
Our recent 2-week walkabout reminded me how paddling (and hopefully rowing) settles the cerebrum and cerebellum. Oar-sports lend themselves to mindfulness. For me, at least. Physical but repetitive. Meditative, at least in the settings and conditions that appeal to me.
So I’m throwing myself into the arms of a 14’ dory and a pair of oars. Both trimmed in cherry. Both as handsome as they are nimble and water worthy.
Thank you, Adirondack Guideboat. I look forward to this rowing life.
Daybreak: Lake Champlain sunrise through “wavy glass” in late August, summertime slipping through the hourglass. (Source: Geo Davis)
Since my earliest Rosslyn intrigue, wondering if the house and property might one day become a home for us, daybreak was my fixation. Perhaps it was just my lifelong affinity for early morning. As an early riser dawn has long been my favorite time of time, a world of possibility… Perhaps it was just curiosity what Rosslyn would feel like, look like, wandering room-to-room early in the morning. Although the front hallway was still in decidedly unfinished condition when we first visited, I imagined the walls painted a pale yellow, transporting the sunrise inside, warming the house with the brightening day.
Daybreak Discernment
This summer has been marked with singularly spectacular sunrises (and sunsets), and I’ve written much and often about these liminal states. This morning, however, catching sight of daybreak through wavy glass in the front parlor, I was struck concurrently with two thoughts.
The wave-rippled surface of Lake Champlain was refracting dawn’s beacon, distorting the beam of fiery orange sunlight into a row of burning “puddles” that wavy glass in the parlor windows was further altering into a dancing mirage. Searing reality transformed into a optical illusion. I was reminded that Rosslyn has often altered my way of seeing and experiencing.
These summer days are filtering faster and faster from anticipation to happening to memories. Just as the fleeting illusion of fiery puddles or bonfires or — pushing possibility to it’s breaking point — fiery cairns guided my eye to the rising sun, wobbling up out of Vermont’s Green Mountains like some hallucination, almost as quickly mellowing to a buttery yellow before vanishing altogether in the cloud bank above, just as quickly this summer is reaching its conclusion.
And these bittersweet realizations, as if coupling and procreating, gave birth to a daybreak haiku.
A window view early on a Sunday morning. A blazing daybreak. Wavy lake and wavy glass. Near, familiar silhouettes framing a veritable mirage. Dawn within. Dawn without.
Morning Light, Front Hallway, August 20, 2022 (Source: Geo Davis)
Ah, that morning light… Long before we purchased Rosslyn, before we’d even had any realistic discussions about purchasing Rosslyn, and before I personally had wrapped my mind around the possibility of Rosslyn becoming our future home, before all of this, I began experiencing a recurring daydream.
If you imagine a daydream to be a bit like a film, the sequence started in Rosslyn’s front hallway. Actually, the sequence started upon entering the hallway, as if from the kitchen door. It’s early in the morning, dawn illuminating the interior, chasing shadows into corners. Tasha, our labrador retriever, accompanies me as I step into the hallway, carrying a cup of coffee, steam rising to my nose. I linger on the way toward the dining room, pause a second, two seconds in the buttery warmth, to witness a whole new day arriving at this exact moment.
The photograph above, taken one week ago, last Saturday at 6:23am, is for all practical purposes that opening moment in the daydream. There are some notable differences like the actual art, carpet, light fixtures, and other furnishings. But these are incidental. The mood and energy of this photograph perfectly conveys the opening moments of the daydream that I relived countless times in the extended prologue to our acquisition of this home. Although the interior of Rosslyn’s front hallway was in decidedly rougher shape during our early visits to the house (photos in an upcoming post), I imagined it looking — and even more importantly — feeling just like this.
I’ve been a “morning person” for, well, forever. I rise early. I do my best thinking early in the day. My wellspring of motivation and energy is most notably in the first few hours after I awaken. And, all things considered, morning just make me optimistic.
So it’s not particularly strange to me that one of my earliest points of connection with Rosslyn was a morning memory of an experience that had never actually taken place. Frankly, Susan and I did visit Rosslyn for almost two years before deciding to make an offer, but we never visited early in the morning prior to purchasing. So the material for this daydream was conjured out of desire and various tidbits gathered during non-morning visits. Apparently my unconscious curiosity and desire was pining for early morning, alone with my dog and a hot cup of coffee (another anomaly which I’ll touch upon elsewhere), to witness the intimate arrival of morning in the home’s entrance hallway (and dining room, another return-to-later detail).
When Susan and I decided on paint colors, I pushed for yellow. She wasn’t particularly keen. I no longer recollect what color she desired, but my yen for yellow was quite simply a yielding to this daydream. My imagination had confected a morning vibe that needed to be experienced in reality. Not a particularly compelling argument when horse trading with Susan over design decisions, but I ultimately prevailed. Trim we agreed on early throughout the house. Beach hardwood flooring, the period chandelier and wall mounted lighting, the rug, the art,… all of these were joint decisions. But the yellow walls remain a point of disagreement even now. In fact, we’re considering a change, and given her willingness to accommodate me for the better part of a decade and a half with faint yellow walls in both halls, I’m inclined to yield at last. (Psssttt… But I haven’t admitted it to her yet, so please don’t through me under the bus!)
Griffin Considers Winter Solstice: December 22, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Welcome to day one of the Adirondack Coast‘s coldest season. Today is the winter solstice, the first official day of winter, and — more importantly for the likes of my mother and others who favor longer days and shorter nights — the threshold between the briefest day and the most prolonged night and imperceptibly-but-steadily lengthening daylight. If you live in the North Country it seems peculiar that winter should only have just begun given several weeks of wintery weather. Seasonality, in these parts, might suggest a slightly earlier autumn-to-winter transition, closer to Thanksgiving than to Christmas.
But the choice is ours to remark and not to make, so we soberly observe this hibernal milestone with tempered optimism that sunnier days await us on the other side. And, for the astronomically exuberant, it’s time to celebrate. Cheers!
If you’re longing for more sunlight, Wednesday is a day to celebrate: Dec. 21 is the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year — and first day of astronomical winter — in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a sign that longer, brighter days are upon us. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
But, as with most tidy transitions, this threshold isn’t actually so tidy. Winter solstice may mark the shortest day and the longest night of the year, but the sunrise and sunset equation is slightly more muddled.
The bottom line: mornings will get a bit darker until early January, but we’ve already gained a few minutes of evening light. On balance, daylight will start to increase after Dec. 21, even as winter’s coldest days still lie ahead. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
So let’s focus on the lengthening days. And, if those increasingly cold days ahead bring snow, then let’s focus on that as well. After all, winter — proper, snowy winter — is one of our four favorite seasons of the year at Rosslyn! It’s a time for dog adventures, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, alpine and telemark skiing, bird feeders flush with avian wildlife, and that unique flavor or crystal clarity that only a subzero morning can catalyze.
Winter Solstice & Onward: December 21, 2022 (Image: Dark Sky)
And speaking of colder days ahead, this screenshot from Dark Sky appears to corroborate the generalization, albeit with a curious exception on Friday. Winter is here, and it looks probably that we’ll be able to enjoy a white Christmas (unless Friday’s warm weather melts the existing snow and delivers rain instead.)
In closing, note that the handsome Labrador retriever atop this post is not Carley, our current dog, but Griffin, a prior pal-o-mine. We lost him just over two years ago, and the ache hasn’t subsided. Maybe with longer, colder days ahead…
Predawn: carriage barn and icehouse (Source: Geo Davis)
Today, predawn, shortly after 5:00 AM, low 40°s, crystal clear. Distant crows, further distant rooster, bats above, swooping, pinging, chimes chiming beneath the cedar,…
We’re on the cusp of a perennially bittersweet transition. One among many. A seasonal migration mid a monsoon of transitions. Such flux. Such disconcert. Unsettled and evolving. If you’re curious, comfortable with unpredictability, inspired by inflection, then I invite you to join us. I’ll be waxing romantic-but-honest in the days and weeks ahead. Change, inside out, for the hale of heart. Bumps, bruises, and blemishes. But also predawn profiles emerging out of the obscurity of night; stark silhouettes and crystal clarity; the beginning of the end of a familiar, comfortable chapter and the end of the beginning of a still-enigmatic and wonder-filled new chapter. I will stumble. But with your patience, your guidance, I will get up again. And I will emerge on the other side, ready.
Morning Meander, June 12, 2018 (Source: Geo Davis)
My best days at Rosslyn start with a mellow morning meander to the waterfront to watch the sun rise up out of the Green Mountains. Or to the vegetable gardens and orchard to pick fresh fruit while sipping my tea. Or around the property inspecting flower beds and deadheading peonies or whatever else has bloomed and withered.
And by my side, my Labrador Retriever. In our early days at Rosslyn, our dog (and my early-morning companion) was Tasha, an almost snow white Lab who passed away as we neared the final significant phase of Rosslyn’s rehabilitation. Tasha was buried beneath a maple tree that she frequented for, well, shall we say, her morning and evening rituals.
Griffin joined our family after Tasha, and he turned ten years old this spring. It hardly seems possible. How did a puppy who so recently chewed up the trim (just as soon as the finish carpenters and painters finished) rocket into the early weeks of his second decade?!?!
Griffin was with me during my morning meander this past Tuesday, June 12. He too loves early morning but for different reasons than I, so my sunrise saunter was brief enough for me to get back inside and make his breakfast before he fainted from starvation…
It was such a mesmerizing effect that I wandered around in the early light watching the morning unfold in duplicate. Here’s a snapshot that I posted on Sailing Errant.
Lake Champlain offered up this morning mirror today. Errant reflected… (Source: Sailing Errant)
The length, breadth, and depth of the greatest of American lakes (Yes, I’m partial!) ensures that perfectly glass flat mornings are few and far between. But when we’re lucky enough to witness one, it feels like slipping into a magnificent Technicolor dream.
